


No Diamonds on This Chain

by brideofquiet



Series: What's for Dessert? [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Anal Beads, First Dates, Genuine Connection First Sex Later, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Meet-Awkward, Meet-Cute, Skinny!Steve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-21
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-11-03 08:14:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10963260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brideofquiet/pseuds/brideofquiet
Summary: Now, Steve is no prude. In fact, he is very much the opposite of a prude, but that’s mostly behind closed doors or when it’ll earn him better tips. But he feels the blush rising on his cheeks anyway, because who really expects to pull a string of anal beads from the lost and found at their restaurant job on a Thursday morning?No one should ever expect that. That’d be fucking weird as hell to expect that.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a necklace I found in the host stand at work that ... did not look like a necklace. I blame everyone in the SBB Slack for enabling this nonsense. Thank you to my pal [TetrodotoxinB](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TetrodotoxinB/pseuds/TetrodotoxinB) for betaing (that's totally a verb, right? Yes).

Steve is a little pissed off. Then again, Steve is pretty much always a little pissed off, a kettle ten seconds from whistling. He publicly blames the whole Irish Catholic situation and the fact that he works in a restaurant, but anyone who knows him understands that that’s only part of it. Today, however, Steve has a very specific reason for being ticked.

It started this morning when he was checking over his section, giving the tables one last cursory wipe before opening. Natasha sidled up to him with the slightest apologetic tilt to her eyebrows. Steve set his towel down with an almighty sigh and turned to her with his arms crossed expectantly.

“I need you to host today instead,” she said, leaning away from him like she expected an explosion.

“Oh, _what_ the actual hell?” Steve grumbled, rolling his eyes with the force of Earth’s rotation. Okay, yeah, maybe Nat was smart to lean away. “Why? Who called in?”

“Wanda. Natasha shooed him away from the table to pick up the towel. He flopped down into a chair instead and leaned on the table to prevent her from cleaning it. She just wiped around his elbows, unperturbed.

“Why’d she call in?” he asked.

“Hangover, I think.”

“Oh, good god." He slumped forward onto the table and groaned, thumping his forehead against the surface repeatedly. “I hope you write her up for that.”

“I’m only joking, her brother died.”

Steve jerked back up to sitting, his scowl shifting tone. “Jesus, Nat.”

“Sorry. That was really insensitive, wasn’t it?”

“No shit. He really died?”

“Yeah,” Natasha said, nodding. At least she looked abashed as she adjusted the salt and pepper shakers, fidgeting with them more than they needed. “So I let her have the day.”

“Hell, give her the whole week if she needs it,” Steve said. "They were foster kids, right?”

“Yeah, he was all she had. Twins.”

“Fuck, okay. I’ll host.” He stood up from the table. As he walked away, he mumbled, “Hosting is goddamn _boring_.”

“I’ll sweeten the deal for you if you don’t piss any guests off.”

Steve spun on his heel to face her, grinning as he walked backward between tables. “Who, me?”

“Steve,” she warned, raising an eyebrow.

“Fine, fine—but I want a whole pie for this. Not a slice, the whole thing. Deal?”

“Deal!” she called after him as he lumbered like a dead man to the front of the restaurant.

 

 

That’s how Steve ends up slumped over the host stand, already sweating even though it’s barely past 11 a.m. At least when he’s serving he has something to do to distract him from the godawful heat outside. Why the hell is the host stand even outside anyway? Well, technically it’s not outside, but it’s just a glorified covered patio. It’s a hell of a stretch to call this an indoor space. At least it’s shaded so he won’t turn into a lobster while he stands here, bored out of his mind.

Even though he just finished wrapping the last load and no guests have arrived to dirty up anymore, Steve contemplates checking if there’s another bin of silverware ready. Or maybe scrubbing down the high chairs? God, no, that’d generate too much heat. What does Wanda do out here all day anyway? Read a book? Despite the promise of an entire pie in the very near future, Steve is beginning to think this wasn’t worth it.

Just then, though, his eyes catch on a reason it might be.

Strolling up the sidewalk, hands in pockets, is one of the hottest dudes Steve’s ever laid eyes on in real life. Cross his heart, swear on the Bible, holy _shit._ Steve straightens up, only leering at him a little bit—okay, a lot, sue him for enjoying the view—when the guy hangs a right and heads straight for the door.

Maybe it was a weird twist of fate that he should be hosting today then. He’ll never say it out loud where Natasha might hear and start thinking this can be a regular thing, but he feels his day turning around as the man approaches the stand.

“Hi, welcome to Nick’s Pantry,” Steve chimes with more sensuality than the greeting strictly requires. He totally bats his eyelashes like that for all the guests. “How many today?” Steve smiles up at him expectantly, a little coyly, glancing around and realizing belatedly that the guy is alone. Not a necessarily a bad thing, Steve thinks.

Then he meets the man’s eyes properly—and they’re _blue_ , so beautiful, he’d probably have to mix colors to get the shade right—and notices how … embarrassed he looks. Steve quirks an eyebrow at him, slowly setting down the menu he’d picked up as the guy ducks his head down and bites his lip. Oh, to be those teeth.

“Um, I’m not eating,” the guy says. He winces and sucks in a rocky breath before looking up at Steve. The softest flush of pink tinges the high points of his cheeks. “I left something here last night?”

“Oh yeah? What’d you leave?” Steve asks. He tilts his head sideways, brow pinching together, flirty little smirk still in place.

“It’s … um, a necklace,” the man says, and then his eyes pop wide and he ducks his head again.

“Okay. I’ve got lost and found right here. Let me check if we have anything.”

Steve takes one more lingering look at the guy, like he’ll never see him again, before diving down to the bottom shelf of the stand. They’ve got a little cardboard box where they store stuff people leave on tables or drop on the floor. Most of the important stuff like wallets or phones people come back to reclaim, so the box is mostly a pile of junk—kids’ toys, umbrellas, gloves, other boring shit. Steve sticks his hands into the flotsam and roots around, searching for a necklace.

“What’d it look like?” he calls from his crouched position. He glances up to see the man leaning over the stand to watch him, long hair cascading forward to fall around his face.

“Um. It’s, uh, black. Beaded.”

“Okay.”

Steve resumes his search, looking for black beads. It’d have to be somewhere near the top of the mess if he left if here last night. Steve skims over the top layer and—oh. Oh sweet, sweet Jesus. He deserves two goddamn pies.

With two fingers, Steve delicately pinches the recovered property and extracts it from the tangle of discarded junk. Now, Steve is no prude. In fact, he is very much the opposite of a prude, but that’s mostly behind closed doors or when it’ll earn him better tips. But he feels the blush rising on his cheeks anyway, because who really expects to pull a string of anal beads from the lost and found at their restaurant job on a Thursday morning?

No one should ever expect that. That’d be fucking weird as hell to expect that.

But it's hardly the worst thing that's happened to him at this restaurant. Whatever. Steve shakes the bashfulness off and decides he’s going to make this a lot more interesting. Mortification isn’t the most conventional flirting technique, but Steve’s not the one who left beads at a restaurant, so maybe this guy is into it. He palms the beads, making sure to tangle his fingers in them, before straightening back up. He holds his hand up, peering curiously at the black silicone. Then he turns to the man, crooked smirk and cocked brow in place.

“A necklace, huh?” he drawls. “You don’t really seem like the necklace-wearing type. Sure this is yours?”

Though the man is still flushed a deep and delectable shade of rose, he swallows hard as he stares at Steve’s hand, deftly twisting the beads around his fingers like they’re alive and moving of their own accord. Oh, this is too much fun. Steve has to stop himself from visibly preening.

“I’m pretty sure,” the guy says, more solidly than Steve would have imagined he was capable of in this situation. Hats off to him, then. Everything else off too, if he buys Steve dinner first and asks permission.

“Percentage-wise, how sure are you? I don’t want to accidentally give away some else’s necklace if you’re only ‘pretty sure.’”

“I am 100% positive that that is mine." He seems to have caught on that Steve is totally fucking with him. He narrows his eyes at Steve, the slightest smile curving his lips.

“Hmm, if you’re that sure,” Steve says, plucking the beads from between his fingers with his free hand. Jesus, but he’s glad they’re empty right now and Nat’s inside. She’d probably string him up by this very strand of anal beads if she saw him doing this so blatantly right now. Or worse—she might encourage him.

Steve starts to hand the beads to the man, but when he reaches out for them, Steve jerks his hand away. “Hang on a second. If you really want these back, I’m going to need to know one more thing.”

The guy sighs witheringly, but he smiles at Steve as he waves a hand at him, 'ask away'. Heat pools low in Steve's stomach under the glow of that smile. So he asks, half of out of genuine curiosity and half out of a desire to prolong their interaction, “How did you leave this here anyway? Because you and I both know that this is no necklace.”

“It was a gift,” the man says, rolling his eyes, but there’s something fond about it that piques Steve’s interest. “My friend Sam brought me here for my birthday dinner last night and thought it’d be just goddamn hilarious to give me—well, _that_ as a gag. There was a fancy as shit watch hidden in the bag too.”

He holds up his wrist and brandishes a beautiful watch made of dark wood. Steve smiles appreciatively before he clues into a detail.

“Wait, Sam? As in our Sam?” Steve asks, frowning. Then his mouth twitches into a wide grin. “Wait a minute, you were the guy with that fuzzy leopard print tiara on last night! Holy shit, I never looked far enough past that thing to see your face.”

He’s laughing by the end of it, clutching at his stomach as he remembers the guy hunkered down in the corner booth, scowling under a jauntily placed tiara. What Steve wouldn’t have given to have had that six-top in his section. Sam earned a lot of respect from him for cajoling his friend into wearing that thing the whole night. Might’ve just earned some more too, now that Steve knows how hot his friends are.

“Yeah, yeah, it was the trade-off for him bringing me to his place of work so we could use his employee discount,” the man says.

“We love Sam,” Steve says, speaking for the whole staff because it’s true. He’s a recent hire, but they all warmed to him quickly for three reasons: 1) he’s a great server 2) he’s charming as hell and 3) he’s hotter than sin. Steve would’ve tried to jump his bones already if he didn’t have a strict policy to never date—or sleep with, or generally get involved with in any way beyond friendship—co-workers. It’s a shame really, but if it meant that this other magnificent man was in his life now too, then he’d take it.

“Yeah, I love him too,” the man says, and this time Steve understands the fondness in his eyes. “Anyways, I know it was mostly a joke, but he did spend money on that and I kind of feel bad about dropping it under the table and forgetting about it. Can I have it back? Just to ease my conscience?”

“Hmm, is that all you’re gonna do with it? No special birthday plans?” Steve can’t help but ask. The man walked himself right into that one.

To Steve’s surprise, the man just smiles wider, eyes darkening. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Steve’s eyes widen as the man reaches across the stand and plucks the beads right out of his hand. He winks at Steve, and then he turns and walks back out the door, swinging the beads around his wrist and his hips side to side as he goes.

Yes, Steve would very much like to know.

 

 

Natasha came through with the pie, going so far as to give him one of the fresh ones instead of one that’d been sitting in the display case for a week. It was the good shit too—apple crumble—and Steve savored that thing till the last bite. She calls in other people to cover Wanda’s shifts over the next week, and Steve resolutely does not think about Sam’s hot friend.

Okay, well, he doesn’t think about him for more than ten minutes at a time. What happens during those allotted ten minutes? That’s for him to know and no one but his internet service provider to find out, thank you very much.

Wanda comes back to work after a week. She still looks a little weepy around the edges, Steve thinks, but who can really blame her for that? He’d been a shit show for the better part of a year after his mom passed.

He stops by the host stand during the post-lunch lull to drop off some menus and check up on her. He’s being a mother hen about it, he knows, but he'd trained Wanda on her first day here, so her well-being is kind of his responsibility now.

“Here you go,” he says, tucking the menus into the neat stack.

Wanda smiles at him. “Thanks, Steve. Did you see I sat the corner booth?”

“Oh, no, thanks for telling me."

Wanda nods at him and continues rolling silverware. Steve starts to walk away, but then thinks better of it and places a hand over Wanda’s. Whoever's in the corner booth can wait just a minute.

“I lost my ma right before my freshman year of college,” he tells her. It still hurts him, but it’s a dull ache, one he knows how to deal with most of the time now.

“Oh, Steve, I’m so sorry,” Wanda says, turning her hand over to grab at his. Steve glances up, and there are tears welling in her eyes.

“Oh, hey—it’s okay." Steve squeezes her hand. “It’s been a few years. I just meant that I know what it’s like to lose the one person who’s been there with you since day one.”

Wanda nods again, wiping at her eyes and looking away.

“If you ever need anything, please don’t hesitate to ask, okay, Wanda? You’ll get through this. It sucks total ass, don’t get me wrong, but it’s survivable.”

She laughs then, just a little, and Steve smiles back at her as he pulls his hand free and turns to walk away. He pivots back around when he hears her call out, “Steve?”

“Yeah?”

“I want to move up to serving. Do you think you could help me do that?”

“Yeah,” he breathes. Girl’s got courage, and more ambition than he’d dared to have right after. “How about you come over to my place this weekend? I’ll help you learn the menu and the shorthand, and then we can drink and commiserate about our shitty lives. Sound good?”

“Great,” she says, and it sounds like she means it.

Steve nods, then jerks a thumb toward the corner booth. She waves him away, and he strolls over to the table. He starts his spiel before he even properly sees who’s sitting there.

“Hi, my name’s Steve and I’ll be taking care of you today. What can I—fuck.” He cuts off abruptly at the sight of the person sitting alone in the booth, smiling up at him benignly, like something right out of his late night fantasies.

“What can you fuck? Didn’t realize this was that kind of establishment,” the man says evenly. His smile turns coy.

Steve blinks heavily a few times and regains his composure. He plants a hand on his hip and narrows his eyes.

“You got a lot of nerve making fun of me after what happened last time you were here,” Steve says.

The man has the good sense to look the tiniest bit abashed, but mostly he looks proud of having ruffled Steve’s feathers. “Seems like I left an impression at least.”

“Not every day I get to return such a beautiful necklace.”

The man laughs, shaking with it, those damn baby blues sparkling up at Steve so enticingly.

“What are you doing here anyway? You actually gonna eat this time?” Steve asks.

The man sobers quickly, ducking his eyes down to the table. “Um, yeah. I’ll eat.” He takes a breath and then glances back up at Steve from under a thick fan of lashes. Steve’s stomach twists into knots at the sight of it. “Mostly I came to see you though.”

And then his stomach just straight up disappears from his body, goodbye stomach, nice knowing you. “Is that so?” Steve asks, hoping it doesn’t sound as breathless as he feels.

The man's face scrunches up in admittedly adorable discomfort. “Is that okay?”

“Sure, but you probably could’ve just asked Sam for my number instead of returning to the scene of your humiliation."

Smooth as shit, you’d never even know half his bodily organs have flung themselves into the dishwasher.

“He wouldn’t give it to me,” the man bemoans, leaning an elbow on the table. “He said I had to forge my own path or whatever other stupid shit. All he’d tell me was that your name is Steve.”

Sam also deserves a pie or two, Steve thinks. He’ll put in a good word with Natasha. This man might deserve one too for actually having the wherewithal to come find him. Though Steve has (allegedly, you can’t prove a thing) been gently pining over this dude for a week now, he never once considered asking Sam about him. _Hey, new co-worker, you mind putting me in contact with that friend of yours with the good hair and the anal beads so I can bone him?_ Ha, no.

“My name is Steve. He did get that right.”

“Bucky.”

“Gesundheit.”

“No, oh my god, my _name_ is Bucky.”

“Oh—Jesus, I’m sorry. Now I look like an ass.”

“Still better off than me, all things considered.”

“I won’t argue with you,” Steve says. The clatter of a fork falling to the floor has him looking over his shoulder at the only other occupied table in his section. Shit, but he’s been standing here a long time. They’re probably all out of diet soda and ranch dressing over there.

“Hey, listen,” Steve says, turning back to Bucky. “Tell me what you want to eat. If this table clears out and I don’t get any more by the time your order’s up, I’ll sit with you for a bit.”

Bucky grins at him, delighted. “You’re allowed to do that?”

“Technically no, but the manager’s my best friend and you can bet your butt I take advantage of that." Steve points to where Natasha is restocking the dessert counter. Restocking, spying on him, whatever.

Bucky rattles off a simple order, and Steve promises to return with it as quick as he can. He winks as he turns on his heel and practically prances back to the kitchen.

Natasha catches him by the arm after he tacks up the order. “Wanna tell me what’s going on out there?”

“Serving guests and serving looks, same as always,” Steve says nonchalantly, wresting himself free of her grip.

“You’re a bad liar, Rogers.”

“You are literally the only person who thinks that.”

“I am not.”

“Bye, Natasha." Steve heads for the kitchen door. "I have to go do my job now, but I’ll be sure to let the manager know you were trying to prevent that. Oh, wait.”

“I’m docking your pay!” she yells after him.

“I work on tips!” he calls back as he pushes through the door.

Fifteen long minutes later, the five-top has cleared out, no other tables have been seated in his section, and Bucky’s order is up. Steve grabs the hot plate from under the warmer and heads toward the door when he remembers he never got Bucky a drink. Well shit, there goes that tip. He pours a glass of water before hurrying across the floor to the corner booth. Bucky greets him with a soft smile as he sets the plate and water down.

“Here you go,” Steve says. He slides into the booth across from Bucky. “Sorry I completely spaced and forgot to get you a drink. I hope water’s okay. Feel free to yell at me about how shitty my service is.”

“Does that happen a lot?” Bucky asks, reaching for the ketchup. He looks genuinely concerned, which is kind of sweet.

“Oh, no, not really. Usually I’m a top-notch waiter when I’m not distracted by a hot dude who came specifically to see me.”

Bucky smiles, biting at his lip as he grabs a napkin and lays it over his lap. Oh, to be those _teeth_.

“Well, good,” Bucky says, then picks up his sandwich.

Steve is in no way prepared for the ungodly noise that comes out of Bucky's mouth when he bites into the sandwich. It shoots straight through him like an electric current, and he sits up a little straighter in his seat.

“Shit, this is good,” Bucky moans around a mouthful, and good _god_. Steve feels the needs to remind Bucky that this is a family restaurant. “Do you—?” Bucky asks, holding out his sandwich for Steve to take, but Steve waves it away and shakes his head. Bucky shrugs and goes back to eating, thankfully tamping down on the obscene noises.

Steve grabs the sweetener tin, dumping all the packets out on the table to reorganize them, give him something to do with his hands. It’s not awkward, sitting here with this relative stranger while he eats, but Steve’s fidgety at the best of times and right now he’s a little nervous.

“So, Bucky,” he starts, piling up the Splendas. “I know you’re into assplay. What else are you into?”

Bucky nearly chokes on a sip of water, forcing it down before he spits it out. He coughs, and Steve smiles apologetically at him, but honestly? He better get used to lines like that if he’s trying to hang around Steve.

He recovers quickly enough and says, “Robots.”

Steve quirks a devilish eyebrow. “Are we still talking sexual interests, or … ?”

“No, oh my god!” Bucky splutters, and Steve eats up how easy it is to get him flustered like that. He’d love to see what other ways he can ruffle him up. “No, I meant I am into robots academically. I’m studying engineering, a concentration in robotics.”

“So you’ve never fucked a robot?”

“Not to my knowledge, no.”

“Would you?”

“I don’t believe that a robot could properly consent to sex, so no. Also I am not attracted to robots, so it’s kind of a no-go on both ends.”

Steve grins, happy he’s playing along, and Bucky smiles right back at him over his plate. Steve replaces all the sweeteners back in the tin. “So where do you go to school?”

“Columbia.”

“Ooh, he’s an Ivy Leaguer. Fancy,” Steve drawls, setting his chin in his hands and waggling his eyebrows.

“What about you? Are you in school?”

Steve nods, biting back a smile.

“Where?” Bucky presses.

“Columbia.”

“Oh, you asshole." Bucky throws his napkin at Steve’s face. Steve grabs it and chucks it back. “I’m surprised I haven’t seen you around.”

"I’m usually shut away in a studio like the reclusive artist my soul yearns to become, so.”

“Artist? You study art?” Bucky asks, mouth popping open in the most exquisite way. Dammit if Steve doesn’t find the incredulity charming, even though anyone who took one look at him could make a safe bet that he’s an art major. It’s these stupid tie-dyed shirts they have to wear here—it throws off his vibe.

“Visual arts. Double concentration in drawing and painting,” he says, and maybe he’s preening about it a bit, but Bucky seems genuinely impressed by him, so whatever. He can be proud. It’s a cool thing.

“That’s so cool,” Bucky says—see! Cool. Robots are cool too, Steve guesses, if you’re into that much math. “I’d love to see you draw something.”

Steve huffs, dragging Bucky’s water across the table to take a long pull of it. When he’s done, he levels Bucky with a dry look. “I’m not some caricature artist down by the boardwalk.”

“No, of course not, I wasn’t asking you to—shit, never mind. I don’t know what I was trying to say,” Bucky says, shaking his head. “I guess I’d get pissed if some random asked me to build a robot for them.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m usually a lot smoother than this, I promise.”

Steve chuckles at him. “I’ll believe that when I see it, Mr. Necklace.”

“I’m never going to escape that one, am I?” Bucky asks, laughing self-deprecatingly.

“Nope.”

Steve pulls a spare napkin from his apron, laying it out on the table, and grabs a pen. He glances up at Bucky, makes sure he has the lines and the light right, and then makes the first few quick strokes.

“Are you—”

“You comment on it, it stops,” Steve warns without looking up. “Just keep talking. Where you from?”

“Brooklyn Heights.”

“No shit?" Steve grins. "Small world—me too. I don’t remember you from high school or anything.”

“Nah, you wouldn’t. I went to military school upstate.”

Steve slows his hand to get a better look at him, eyes roving over every detail. He catches sight of something at the edge of Bucky’s rolled up sleeve, a jagged white scar curving over his left forearm. He sees Bucky fidget under his gaze and immediately looks back to his napkin, mumbling an apology.

“I met Sam in high school. He was there when this happened.” Out of the corner of his eye, Steve sees him yank his sleeve even farther up his arm, past the crook of his elbow and up his bicep. The scar continues, thick and rope-like, up the length of it. Bucky murmurs, “You can look. I don’t mind so much anymore.”

Steve does look then, because it feels like Bucky is asking him to and he wants to oblige him. It takes effort to keep his face neutral, because it looks like that shit _hurt_.  

“Me and Sam and Sam’s boyfriend Riley got in a car accident when I was just barely seventeen,” Bucky says.

“You don’t have to tell me about it.”

Bucky shrugs and rolls his sleeve back down. “It’s not a big deal.”

A part of Steve thinks he’s lying, and he wonders what about and why, so deeply curious about this man across from him. But he decides to keep it light, setting down his pen and leaning toward Bucky across the table.

“Alright, you showed me yours, so it’s my turn. I’ve got a lot, so you can pick one to see for now.” Bucky stares back at him with a confused frown, but Steve barrels on. “Open heart surgery, stab wound, dog, or rock?”

Of course, those are just the big ones. Steve’s body’s littered with smaller scars, a lifetime of reckless behavior and thin skin. Most of them are either faded or hidden under tattoos now, but the bigger ones are hard to cover and kind of badass anyway.

“Uh,” Bucky says. “Stab wound?”

“Good choice,” Steve says, sliding out of the booth so Bucky can see as he lifts the hem of his shirt till his lower ribs are visible. Bucky swallows hard at the sudden reveal of skin. Steve beams proudly as he points to a long, thin scar on his left side. “I got in a knife fight once, only I didn’t have a knife, and the kid who did hit my ribs and then ran off when I started bleeding all over the street.”

“What the fuck? You got in a knife fight? What the hell are you, Steve?” Bucky asks.

Steve drops his shirt and sits back down. “I’m alive and not in jail yet, which is more than my mother would have ever believed possible.”

“I’ll bet she has several ulcers,” Bucky says, shaking his head, astounded. Steve lets the present tense slide, deciding not to open up that particular can of worms right now. Keeping it light. “Is there risk of injury if I start hanging out with you? Do I need to sign a waiver or let my insurance company know?”

Steve laughs, picking up his pen to continue. He points the tip at Bucky. “You’re funny. I like that. Now finish your sandwich that I so graciously told the kitchen to make for you.”

Bucky huffs a put-upon sigh like it’s some huge hassle, but he smiles softly as he picks his food back up. While he puts back the rest of his meal, Steve finishes the sketch. They stay quiet, both intent on the task at hand, but it doesn’t feel uncomfortable. In fact, it’s so comfortable that Steve actually starts to get uncomfortable. He thinks back to Bucky’s words as he does some last touches, about hanging out with him. It would’ve been a little rude to just sleep with Bucky and bail, since he’s Sam’s friend and Steve is trying really hard to be friends with Sam too. But now the idea doesn’t even bother him.

He wants to see Bucky again, with or without the beads. Though beads would be good.

Bucky wipes his mouth with his napkin and then crumples it up on his plate. Steve hands him the one he’d been working on as a replacement.

“Better not wipe bread crumbs off your face with that,” he says.

Bucky takes the napkin and holds it up with both hands to look so it covers most of his face. But Steve can still see his eyes, and he watches as they widen with wonder.

“You drew me,” Bucky says, lowering the napkin so he can look at Steve, the dumbest hint of a smile on his face. Oh, Steve is truly sunk now—that bashful little smile is about the cutest thing he’s ever seen. “Damn, do I always look this hot?” Bucky asks, glancing back down to the napkin.

“Fishing’s what you do at the lake,” Steve says, but there’s no bite to it. He holds a hand out for the napkin. “Gimme that back for a second, I forgot something.”

Bucky reluctantly hands it back, and Steve lays it out flat on the table again. He takes a moment to admire his own work, not something he usually does, but—hmm. Yeah, this is pretty good, even for a dumb ten-minute napkin sketch. He drew Bucky looking up at him from under those lashes, biting into that plump lower lip of his. His hair is pulled back today, but a few strands frame his face. Steve signs the corner of the napkin out of habit, and then writes his phone number below it.

“I don’t know about always," Steve says, "but I can tell you that despite my obviously amazing artistic talent, this does not hold a candle to you right now.”

Bucky takes the napkin back, staring at the new additions for a beat before his smile breaks wide. He meets Steve eye and grins, pulling his phone out of his pocket. Steve thinks he’s just entering his number in, but then his own phone buzzes in the front pocket of his apron. He slides it out and frowns down at the screen for half a second before he puts it together.

“Oh, you’re an absolute dork,” Steve says.

“And you’re naughty, keeping your phone on you at work. Answer the call.”

Steve hits the green button and holds his phone up to his ear.

“Hi, is this Steve Rogers?” Bucky asks. Steve’s staring down at the tabletop, blushing for god knows what reason. He almost hates how ridiculous this is. Almost.

“It is. Who may I ask is calling?”

“Bucky Barnes.”

“Anal beads guy?”

Bucky doesn’t miss a beat. “Yes.”

“May I inquire as to why?”

“I was wondering what time you got off tonight.”

“Well, I don’t know about when I’ll get off because that’s up to you, but my shift’s over around eight.” He can’t help but glance up then, and he smirks when he sees the faint flush on Bucky’s cheeks.

“Can I call you again around eight then? Take you out on a date?”

Steve reflexively covers his instantaneous, stupidly huge smile with his hand. “I’d love to. But only if you wear that darling necklace of yours.”

“Hmm, I don't think it'll match my outfit, but it might make an appearance later if you’re lucky.”

Steve huffs and kicks Bucky’s leg under the table. It must startle him, because he drops his phone to the table with a clatter. That just sets Steve laughing more, and he hangs up before setting his phone down as Bucky scrambles to rescue his from the ketchup.

“I swear I’m smoother than this,” Bucky mumbles, wiping his phone off with a clean napkin.

“I don’t really care if you are, but I’ll keep giving you chances to prove it anyway.”

Bucky smiles at him warmly and pulls his wallet from his pocket. He carefully folds up Steve’s drawing and tucks it inside, then grabs a twenty and starts to lay it on the table.

“Oh no, it’s on the house,” Steve says, sliding his money back to him.

“Are you allowed to do that?”

“Why do you keep questioning my authority?” Steve raises his eyebrows. Bucky just stares at him. “Fine, I’m not. But Natasha’s not gonna say anything.”

She might pretend to give him shit for it, might even go so far as to write him up, but she’ll throw it away. She’s been trying to set him up for more than just a hook-up for way too long to be bothered about one sandwich for more than five minutes.

“Okay, I gotta get back to work,” Steve says as Wanda leads a family to a table in his section. As he eases out of the booth, Bucky stands up too. Steve grabs his pen off the table and slides his book out of his apron. “I’ll see you later?”

Bucky bites his lip and ducks his head, doing a perfect imitation of Steve’s drawing. He knows it too, because he grins when Steve’s eyes go round and glassy. “Of course.”

Steve smacks him on the shoulder with his book as he glides past him toward the new guests, his heart rattling excitedly in his chest.

Natasha catches him in the kitchen again when he’s putting in the order.

“What the fuck is up, Steve Rogers?”

“Not much, just working, but I thought that was obvious.”

“Shoot straight before I shoot you,” Natasha growls, and she looks murderous. Jesus, the books must be off or something today, because there’s no way she’d be that mad at him for just this. He gives in, deciding it’s not worth it to piss her off by dancing around any more.

“His name’s Bucky. He’s Sam’s friend, came in here the other day to get—”

“Wait, that’s anal beads guy? The one you’ve been moping after for a week?”

Steve rolls his eyes. Nope, Bucky’s never going to live that one down. “The very same.”

“He came here to see you?”

“Yes, Natasha. What is this, twenty questions?”

“You don’t tell me shit about your love life, Steve, so sue me for being curious.”

Steve sighs and puts an apologetic hand on her shoulder. “He is sweet and funny and he’s studying engineering at Columbia and he’s taking me out after I’m done here tonight. I don’t know what we’re doing, but I’m hoping it ends with him screwing my lights out. Or me screwing him? Or maybe I won’t even sleep with him on the first date, I haven’t decided. Is that enough information for you?”

Natasha smiles at him. “You really like him, don’t you? You’re trying not to mess this one up.”

“Thank you for reminding me of my less than stellar track record,” Steve says, dropping his hand. “I haven’t decided. I don’t know. I have a good feeling about him. I think he really likes me.”

“What’s not to like?” Steve gives her a sharp look. “Yeah, okay, you’re right. You’re an acquired taste, but I hope he drinks you down like he’s dehydrated. You deserve that.”

“Thank you,” Steve says sincerely. Her methods may be unconventional sometimes, but she is always looking out for him. He smiles at her and turns to go check on his section. He pauses and calls without turning around, “Hey, Nat?”

“Yeah, Steve?”

“I absolutely did not say this, and if you ever try to tell me I did then I will light you on fire like a baked Alaska.” He glares over his shoulder at her, and she raises one neat eyebrow. “But thank you for forcing me to host the other day. It wasn’t so bad.”

She cackles and chucks at menu at his head. He darts away, but as he pushes open the door to the kitchen, he doesn’t have to fake his smile for once.


	2. Chapter 2

By the time they make it to Steve’s door, it’s nearly midnight. Getting home this late isn’t entirely uncharacteristic for him, but usually he’s coming home with paint smeared in his hair, not beer on his breath.

He’d met Bucky at a bar down the block from his building at about 8:30, long enough after he’d gotten off work to run home and freshen up. With a clean shirt on and his hair as manageable as ever, he had found Bucky waiting outside for him, in form-fitting jeans and his hair tied back. Steve can’t say truthfully that his mouth didn’t water at the sight of him, but he tamped it down and greeted him nonchalantly enough.

They got drinks, and then an appetizer, and then decided to move locations completely when Bucky revealed he hadn’t eaten dinner either. They picked a hole-in-the-wall Vietnamese diner up the street, one that they apparently both frequent—and again, Steve wonders, how had they never crossed paths before? Surely he’d remember seeing a man like this, even preoccupied by bánh mì. He’s happy to have met him now at least.

They talk over their food, so much that Steve’s goes cold, but he finds that he doesn’t really mind. Small talk, banter—that’s easy, that’s what he’s good at. It’s his job to be good at that, and they do go back and forth the way they had at the restaurant. But he finds it’s easier to delve deeper than that too, to tell Bucky and his bright, open eyes about his mother, his father, about the painting propped up on an easel in his reserved studio at school. Bucky listens intently, like what Steve has to say matters—it does, he knows that it does, but it doesn’t always feel that way. Most of the time he’s just talking to make more money or impress a teacher.

With Bucky, he’s sharing himself for no other reason than that he wants to.

Bucky gives back in spades, telling him about his own family. His father, well-meaning if incredibly stern, and how he’d sent him off to military school so he wouldn’t have to move around so much. His sweet mother, and his younger sister—still in school, going up to see her next month. How, after nearly losing his arm in high school, he wants to create robotic prosthetics to help those less lucky than he was. Steve listens to him too, because he’s genuinely interested, because he wants to know more about the man across from him.

It’s strange for Steve—or not strange, maybe that’s the wrong word. _Rare_ , to feel so comfortable just talking to someone new, giving away parts of himself that he usually tucks away. The snide jokes fall away and they _talk_ , and it feels nice in a way he hasn’t experienced in a long, long time. When’s the last time someone cared enough to actually get to know him? When did he last care enough to bother getting to know someone else?

Bucky offers to walk him home after they split the tab, and he says yes without a thought. It’s only a few blocks, and it feels too short, already their time coming to an end. He wants to draw it out, offer to walk farther or go get dessert somewhere, but he has to be up at a reasonable hour. He settles for grabbing Bucky’s hand and lacing their fingers together. Bucky grins at him, squeezing his hand, and Steve smiles back.

Outside his door, he pauses while fishing his keys out of his pocket.

“I had a really nice time tonight, Bucky,” he says. He ducks his head, unusually shy. There’s something about this man that makes him feel bashful. Try as he might to be calm and collected as always, he can’t manage it with Bucky. He doesn’t hate the feeling, though. it’s different, new—something to wonder about.

“Me too,” Bucky says, reaching out to brush Steve’s hair out of his eyes. “Thank you for coming out with me.”

“Yeah, because it was such a hardship to hang out with you,” Steve says.

Bucky cracks a smile, but his hand still lingers against Steve’s cheek, fingers carding through his hairline. Bucky's eyes go dark, and Steve’s breath catches.

"I really want to kiss you," Bucky says. “Can I?”

“Jesus, yes,” Steve breathes.

He grabs Bucky by the nape of the neck and hauls him in, pausing for maybe half a second before crashing their mouths together. It’s messy at first, and Bucky’s open mouth tastes like lager, but they find a rhythm quickly enough. Bucky cups his cheek with one hand and grasps his hip by the other, backing Steve against his own front door. Steve bites at Bucky’s plump lip, taking the slightly chapped skin between his teeth the way he’s wanted to since he first saw him. Bucky groans, and it’s so much better than Steve imagined. He wraps his arms around Bucky’s back and claws at his shirt. Bucky licks into his mouth and presses him more firmly against the door.

Steve pulls back with a gasp, but Bucky just puts his lips to work elsewhere. He kisses down along his jaw, pausing to nibble at Steve’s earlobe before working his way to his neck. Steve sighs quietly, nearly forgetting why he pulled away at all. Then he shifts, and the doorknob digs into his back.

“Bucky,” Steve says.

“Yeah?” Bucky asks against his pulse point. By now he’s pressed entirely against Steve, the whole solid line of him. Steve can feel Bucky’s dick in his jeans, half-hard and snug against his own hip.

“I would invite you inside,” he says.

“But?” Bucky pulls back enough to meet Steve’s eye, his pupils blown wide in the dim light of the hall. His hands rub circles into Steve’s narrow hips.

“But it’s late, and I have to work in the morning—and—”

Bucky cuts him off with a soft, close-mouthed peck. “And?”

“And I’m—you—” Steve kisses him again for distraction, but Bucky pulls back.

“You what, Steve?” he asks, expression open as it is wanting.

“I really want to invite you inside,” Steve gasps. “Like, _really_ fucking want to fuck you so bad.”

“But,” Bucky fills in the blank again, sliding a single step backward. Steve misses the warmth of him immediately.

“Listen, obviously it’s not that I don’t want to,” Steve says, grabbing Bucky’s hips and dragging him forward, back against him where he’s stiff in his pants. “Obviously I want you, but I have work and I’m—I don’t want to—”

He stops to breathe for a minute and gather his jumbled thoughts. Bucky waits patiently for him. Steve is grateful for that in some respect, in others resentful because it makes it _worse_ , but he manages to smile at Bucky. He lifts a hand to stroke over the sharp cut of his cheekbone.

“I’m a first date kind of guy,” Steve says. Bucky raises his eyebrows but doesn’t say anything, so Steve continues. “Usually. But I don’t—I like you, Bucky. I wanna see you again.”

Bucky smiles at him tentatively. “I like you too, Steve.”

“You better,” Steve says, drawing him in for another lingering kiss.

“I’ll call you tomorrow?” Bucky murmurs against his mouth.

“D’you mean today, or tomorrow tomorrow?” Steve asks, smiling too broadly to kiss much more.

“Today then, if you’re gonna be so particular about it," Bucky says, but his cheeks are twitching.

“Get used to that, pal. I’m particular about everything.” Steve pinches his hip, and Bucky yelps, ducking away from him.

“Good to know.” He slips in for one last kiss, wet and tender against the apple of Steve’s cheek. He fishes Steve’s keys out of his pocket for him as he pulls away. Holding them out for Steve to take, he says, “Sweet dreams.”

“Let me know when you make it home safely, alright?” Steve takes his keys and turns in Bucky’s grip to unlock his door.

“I will,” Bucky says.

When Bucky finally pulls away from him, Steve feels it like a blanket wrested from him on a cool morning. But he waves and smiles as Bucky walks backward down the hallway. He grins at him till the elevator dings and Bucky slips inside with a little salute.

As he pushes into his apartment, Steve thinks, _Oh, I am so fucked._

 

  
About half an hour later, he nearly drops his phone on his face when it buzzes with a text. Late night social media snooping: bad for the eyes, the conscience, and the nose, apparently. He tabs away from a disappointingly empty Instagram page to his messages.

 **Bucky** _received 12:47 a.m.  
_ Hi made it home! Talk to you today

And then, inexplicably, a shrimp emoji. Steve raises an eyebrow and types a response.

 **Steve** _sent 12:48 a.m.  
_ Is that a short joke?

 **Bucky** _received 12:48 a.m.  
_ NO fuck sorry it was right next to the blushy face in my frequently used!

Steve honest to god giggles, and he hates himself a little bit for it. Not enough to not text back, though.

 **Steve** _sent 12:50 a.m.  
_ I’m gonna need you to explain why the shrimp is in ur frequently used

 **Bucky** _received 12:51 a.m.  
_ Ask Sam he started it

 **Steve** _sent 12:52 a.m.  
_ Well now I have to. Go to sleep Bucky ♥

Bucky sends back a smattering of multicolored hearts.

Steve sets his phone aside and tries very hard to ignore the nervous little flutters in his chest. He’s got a history of heart problems, he’s probably just dying—it’s fine.

 

 

Work sucks as per usual, but at this point Steve’s numb to the Saturday brunch crowd and their inability to tip. Maybe it’s something to do with the mimosas they serve by the pitcher on weekend mornings. Drunk people can’t do math, especially not at 11 a.m.

He grumbles all the way through his shift, and eventually it slows down enough for him to flop into the staff’s usual booth to count his money. He drags the wad of cash (mostly ones, fuck you brunchers) and his phone out with it. There’s a text waiting.

 **Bucky** _received 10:43 a.m.  
_ Hi Steve! When is good to call you

 **Bucky** _received 11:06 a.m.  
_ Shit did that sound too eager? Actually I don’t care

“Ooh, what’s got you smiling, sourpuss?” Natasha asks, sliding into the booth across from him.

Steve covers his mouth to hide his stupid grin and stares daggers at Natasha.  “First of all, don’t call me that. That’s disgusting. Second, who says I’m smiling? Do you see a smile?”

Her hand darts across the table to yank his away from his mouth—and try as he might to wrestle it into a scowl, Steve just can’t erase his smile completely. Natasha claps once and points, looking more like she just won a wrestling match than found her friend smiling.

“There it fucking is! You got laid!”

“Who got laid?” Sam asks, sitting down next to Steve.

“Fucking Christ,” Steve mutters, grabbing his phone again. He does not have time for these assholes right now. He has tips to count and a nice man to text back.

 **Steve** _sent 3:16 p.m.  
_ Hey sorry I’ve been at work all morning. How many white ladies does it take to drink a pitcher of mimosas?

 **Bucky** _received 3:17 p.m.  
_ One?

“Who are you texting? My boy?” Sam asks. He leans over to read Steve’s texts, and Steve promptly shoves him halfway out of the booth before turning back to his phone.

 **Steve** _sent 3:18 p.m.  
_ Ding ding we have a winner! Also I’m free for a bit if you wanna call now

“Alright, Rogers,” Natasha says. She snatches up his tips from the table. Steve reaches out to stop her, but she swats his hands away. “I count, you dish. How’d the date go? Did you or did you not use the anal beads?”

“Ooh, yeah, you have to spill!” Sam says. “Bucky wouldn’t tell me shit.”

Just then, his phone lights up with a call.

“Excuse me, I have to take this. Very important business call,” Steve says. He slides all the way to the inside of the booth (which gives him about a foot of privacy, Nat and Sam leaning toward him to overhear anyway—nosy shits) and hits answer. “Yes, hello, this is Steve Rogers.”

“Steve?” comes Bucky’s confused voice.

“Sorry, Nat and Sam are being creeps. Hi, Bucky.”

He holds the phone out for Natasha and Sam to chorus, “Hi, Bucky!”

“Anyways, we have an audience,” Steve says as he puts the phone back to his ear, “so nothing naughty.”

Bucky’s laugh rings out tinny over the line, and Steve finds himself smiling at the sound. He throws a sugar packet at Natasha and her satisfied smirk.

“Damn, there go all my plans to kiss you through the phone,” Bucky says.

“If you ever say that again, there will be no more kissing through any devices or in person.”

“Kissing!” Sam shouts, slapping a hand on the table. Steve covers it with his own and shakes his head sternly at him.

“Not a Soulja Boy fan, noted,” Bucky says. “Was that Sam? Did you ask him about the shrimp yet?”

“Ah shit, I forgot. I will right now,” Steve says. He turns to Sam with serious eyes. “Sam Wilson, please tell me about the shrimp.”

Sam busts up laughing, and Bucky must hear him because he starts laughing too.

“You’re not going to think this is funny at all,” Sam wheezes. “But back in school, it was—y’know, military school, so really strict. Shrimp was code for anything we weren’t allowed to do, usually drinking beer. Now it’s just an inside joke, I guess.”

“That’s dumb,” Steve says to him. Into his phone, he says, “Bucky, the shrimp thing is dumb.”

“Did you hear me say it wasn’t?”

“Alright, Steve, you’ve made $57 in cash tips. Now tell me about your sex life.”

“ _Jesus_ ,” Steve breathes, reaching across the table to snatch his money back. “Did you hear that? Is it okay if I tell them?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, “I just didn’t tell Sam because I hadn’t asked you that yet.”

“Thank you,” Steve says, feeling strangely touched that Bucky wouldn’t gossip about him, even to his best friend. He turns to Sam and Nat, who both have their hands tucked underneath their chins, eager little shits. “We had a nice time and then I kissed him on the mouth and nowhere else.”

“Aw, come on!” Sam exclaims, throwing his hands into the air.

“Nope, no one came on anything,” Bucky says. Steve laughs and relays the line.

Natasha rolls her eyes and scoots out of the booth. “Whatever. No personal phone calls while you’re on the clock,” she reminds him, but the wink belies her words. She’s happy for him, even if she’s completely weird about conveying that.

Sam claps Steve on the shoulder, leaning in toward the phone so he can say, “Happy for you, boo.” He follows Nat back toward the kitchen, where they will undoubtedly chatter about Bucky and Steve for the rest of their shift, boundaries/privacy be damned.

“Alright, we’re alone,” Steve says, voice slipping lower.

“Oh, are we? Does that mean we can be naughty?”

“Well,” Steve huffs, “I am still in public and also my place of work, so I’d say like, PG-13?”

“Nice. So, can I see you again tonight? If you wanted to come over, I can cook you dinner and then we’ll tastefully fade to black.”

Steve laughs, a hot thrill curling through his stomach at the implication. He piles his elbows on the table and smiles as he says, “Of course you can see me again, but only if you’re cooking a five course meal. And I want candles. Maybe some—no, definitely a fine wine. Linen napkins.”

“Hmm, you are particular, aren’t you?” Bucky says. “I’ll see what I can do. How’s seven sound?”

“Sounds perfect,” Steve says. He glances across the room and spies his single table he’s been neglecting. Their drink are empty, he notes with a sigh. “Listen, I have to go, but text me your address. And don’t forget the candles.”

Bucky chuckles. “Alright, Steve. I’ll see you later.”

“Can’t wait,” Steve says truthfully before hanging up. He tucks his phone into his pocket and grins so wide as he refills his table’s drinks that they probably think he’s deranged.

 

 

As soon as his last table pays, Steve hurries home to shower and wash the smell of sweat and food off. He lays out several shirt options on his bed while he towel dries his hair, staring down fretfully at them. What color says “I’m gonna eat this food and then maybe eat you”? Red? Purple?

He ends up forgoing colors as a concept entirely and settles on a grey shirt that fits very well and makes him look very handsome, thank you very much, shirt. It’s also easy to get off, which may have been a factor, but he is decidedly not thinking about it. Nor does he think about the butterflies trying to make a break from the arboretum that is his stomach. Who’s nervous? Steve Rogers doesn’t get nervous.

He arrives outside Bucky’s apartment precisely on time. He knocks twice, two sharp raps.

Bucky opens the door seconds later, face flushed and holding a spatula in one hand.

“Hi, Steve,” he breathes, a smile overtaking the slightly harried expression he’d had a moment ago. A warm, rich aroma flows out into the hallway.

“Am I early?” Steve asks, even though he knows he’s not.

“No, no, come in please,” Bucky rushes, holding the door open for him. Steve steps inside, glancing around. It’s a studio apartment, the kitchen on the right and living room/bedroom on the left. Everything’s neat and tidy, with surprisingly cohesive decor. Shit, are those throw pillows on the bed?

Steve turns his attention back to Bucky, ignoring the bed that will be in plain view the entire time they eat, a fact about which he is totally chill. Bucky’s just standing there smiling at him, though there’s still a nervous edge to it, like he’s worried Steve might judge his bookshelf or something. (It’s color-coded, which has its merits aesthetically but is impractical when you have a big collection, Steve thinks.)

He quirks an eyebrow when he notices the apron tied around Bucky’s waist. “‘Kiss the cook’?”

“Oh, uh, meant to take that off,” Bucky mutters, setting his spatula down and reaching up to undo the tie. Steve sidles closer to him, grabbing Bucky’s hands to stop him. He places them on his own waist and backs Bucky up against the counter.

“Don't mind if I do,” he says.

Bucky just blinks at him. Steve inclines his head toward the apron, smirking, and Bucky glances down at it before scoffing at himself. Steve takes advantage of his pursed lips, taking Bucky’s face in his hands and leaning up to kiss him. He tastes spicy, like black pepper and maybe cloves. Steve would be perfectly content to kiss the flavor right off him, dinner be damned—this is all the sustenance he needs.

Something beeps in the kitchen, and Bucky pulls back with a regretful little hum. “Food’s gonna burn,” he says.

“Don’t care,” Steve says, reaching for him again, but Bucky leans away.

“I kind of do,” he says, his mouth twisting.

“Fine." Steve lets him free. “Go finish my dinner, Guy Fieri.”

“Um, more like Maneet Chauhan, actually. I hope you like Indian,” Bucky says as he rounds the counter and moves a pot off the stove.

“Indian?”

Steve follows Bucky into the kitchen. He leans against the counter next to the stove as Bucky lifts the lid from what Steve can now see is basmati rice. Another big skillet with the lid still on simmers, the source of that delectable smell.

“Is that okay?” Bucky asks. “I just—noticed you didn’t order anything with meat last night, so I thought—Indian’s got a lot of vegetarian options, I’ll do that.”

“I never told you I was a vegetarian,” Steve says slowly.

Bucky glances over at him, eyes wide. “Are you not? Shit, I’ve got like … bacon in the fridge, probably.”

“Chill, Buck,” Steve says, thumping him on the shoulder. “I am. That’s really thoughtful of you to pick up on it.”

“Of course,” Bucky says. He smiles shyly at Steve as he lifts the lid on the pan to give what’s inside a stir. “There’s some masala paneer and crackers on the coffee table if you’re hungry now. This only needs about another ten minutes.”

“Oh, am I really getting the full five courses?” Steve asks. As he trails into the living space, he notices that the little two-seater table does indeed have a single unlit candle in a silver holder. Shit, Bucky’s about to romance the hell out of him, isn’t he? Sure enough, there’s a neat platter sitting on the coffee table with the paneer, crackers, and grapes. He settles onto the couch and picks up one of each.

“Um, if you count the chole, the naan, and rice as separate courses then there’s four?” Bucky says, untying his apron as he rounds the counter again. He lays it overtop and approaches the couch, leaning over the back. “Oh, and the wine. I hope you like red.”

“Never met a grape I didn’t like.” Steve pops one into his mouth for effect. He holds one up for Bucky too, who takes it between his teeth with a grin. “Are you going to sit with me for a minute, Iron Chef?”

Instead of answering, Bucky vaults nimbly over the back of his couch like he’s done it a thousand times—probably has, the big dork—and lands on the cushions with a grunt. He reaches for a cracker and some paneer before propping a socked foot on the couch. He leans his elbows on his kneecap and smiles over at Steve, chewing his food before talking.

“Hi, Steve. How has your day been?”

“Better now. It’s good to see you,” Steve says. He feels color rising in his cheeks, just laying all his cards out on the damn table. With the way Bucky ducks his head and bites his lip—ooh, he’s allowed to bite it now too!—he thinks that might be okay.

“You too,” Bucky says. “Sorry I was such a mess when you got here. I’ve never cooked Indian before and there are _so many spices_. My spice rack is decimated.”

“You have an actual spice rack?” Steve laughs. “God, how old are you? You’re like a real adult or something.”

“I’m only 22,” Bucky assures him, as if Steve might have actually thought he was 30. “I just like cooking. Working with my hands.”

Steve raises an eyebrow. “Oh, really?”

Bucky snorts at himself as he realizes his own innuendo. When he looks back at Steve, his eyes grow dark. “Yeah, really good at it too. Know just how to turn on the robots when I get their circuitry wired correctly.”

“You’re a fucking dork,” Steve wheezes around a laugh. Bucky grins and crosses his eyes at him, so Steve reaches out to honk his nose, and then they’re both falling forward against each other, laughing too hard to stay upright.

Eventually Steve gets himself under control, holding the stitch in his side as he breathes against Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky’s hands wind around him, stroking his back through the thin shirt. He mumbles into Bucky’s neck, “I get that though, the working with your hands. I’m the same way.”

“Yeah?” Bucky says, pulling back to meet Steve’s eye. His blue, blue eyes are fucking sparkling in the lamplight, and Steve absolutely has to sit down in his studio and mix a shade to match that color. It’s too goddamn gorgeous. Hell, the whole of him is—Steve wants to prop him up in a chaise lounge and paint him, Titanic-style.

And then, like Bucky can read his mind, he says, “I’d love to see some more of your artwork sometime.”

“Sure, but only if I get to see your sexy robot spawn.”

“Now that sounds vaguely incestuous." Just then, another timer dings from behind them. Bucky slides away with a wink. “Dinner’s up.”

A minute later, he bustles Steve to the table and won’t let him help with anything.

“I’m serving you tonight, alright?” he says.

Something catches in Steve’s chest at that, warm and buoyant—he’s a damn hot air balloon, he guesses. He goes with it, though, and settles into his seat to watch Bucky plate the food, scurry over to light the candle, dim the lights a little more. Bucky puts on some music, something slow and jazzy at a quiet volume. Then he sets both plates on one arm, gathers the wine bottle in his free hand, and smiles at Steve as he heads toward the table. Steve gives him an impressed nod at his deft balancing act—the commitment’s cute.

It surprises Steve how much he’s willing to go along with all this. Normally he’d think it was hokey as hell. This is their second date. He’s used to second dates being dinner out, maybe some live music somewhere, tipsy public make-outs and then hurried morning excuses—if he makes it to the second date at all. Steve knows you’re not supposed to judge too much from a first date, they’re always terrible—but he just doesn’t have _time_ , for dating in general, much less wasting time with someone that doesn’t excite him. Between school and work, he’s strapped for free time, so he’s relegated himself to being a hit-it-and-quit-it guy these past few years. It’s not ideal, but it’s worked for him so far.

Besides, if he doesn’t get bored first, the other person usually does. Not bored, maybe—Steve knows he’s a lot to handle. There’s not a lot of people who are willing to put up with him, much less commit to doing it consistently and exclusively.

Maybe that’s why, when Bucky watches him expectantly as he takes the first bite, he makes sure to let him know how much he likes it—and it’s not even a lie, holy _shit_ can he cook. It’s the reason he laughs and smiles at Bucky’s jokes and stories, sharing his own freely, no hesitation or reservations. With Bucky smiling across the candlelit table at him, he feels so utterly like _himself_ that he may as well be floating for how good it feels.

After dinner, Steve insists on helping with cleanup. They make even more of a mess along the way when Steve decides the soapy dishwater would look better on Bucky than his plates. Bucky pops him on the butt with the towel, and by the time Steve relents, Bucky has to strip his sweater off it’s so damp. What a tragedy—now he’s just in a white short-sleeve so threadbare Steve can spy the dusky color of his nipples through it.

Eventually they do get the kitchen clean, everything in the dishwasher or back in the cabinets. Steve hops up on the counter and pours the last of the pinot noir into his glass. Bucky hangs the towel on the oven handle and turns to him with a playful glint in his eye.

“Not going to leave any for me, huh?” Bucky asks.

“Oh no, come and get it,” Steve says. He takes a sip before holding his glass out for Bucky. The silky taste of it lingers in his mouth, and a few glasses deep, Steve is feeling bold. Not that he isn’t usually feeling bold, but whatever nervousness he felt earlier seems to have settled for now. As Bucky saunters over to him, he licks the wine off his lips.

Bucky takes the glass and steps forward, his hips parting Steve’s legs so he can stand between them. He lays his free hand over Steve’s thigh, fingers slipping higher as he takes a slow pull from the glass, never breaking eye contact. Steve watches him swallow, his throat bobbing, and finds himself swallowing thickly too, his mouth gone dry.

As Bucky sidles in even closer, Steve locks his knees around his waist and gets his hands on him. His fingers twist in the thin fabric over Bucky’s ribs as Bucky leans into him, his mouth so tantalizingly close, the center of his lips stained faintly purple—and then Bucky leans right past him to set the glass down on the counter.

“You’re the worst tease and I hate you,” Steve says. He pinches Bucky’s side for good measure. Bucky hisses and then laughs, pressing his face to the side of Steve’s neck.

“Nah, you don’t,” he says. Then he kisses Steve’s neck, just softly, lips running so teasingly light under Steve’s ear, that little _shit_. His hand on Steve’s thigh works higher, to the juncture of his hip where he digs his thumb in in firm circles. He touches Steve’s back with the other, slowly roving up and down with his broad, capable hand.

“I do,” Steve insists around a sigh. He angles his chin up to give Bucky better access, but he’s still just ghosting kisses along his throat. “Really. You suck.”

“Hmm, only if you’re nice,” Bucky hums.

“I’m nice as fuck.” Steve reaches up and threads his fingers into Bucky’s loose hair, yanking his head up rather unceremoniously. “Now kiss me.”

Bucky’s eyes dart down to Steve’s lips, and he sets his teeth to his own and Steve’s about _had_ it, he’ll make it happen himself. Then Bucky murmurs, “With pleasure,” and rocks forward to seal their mouths together.

His lips taste like wine and curry and it should be gross, it really should not be this good, but Steve traces his tongue over the seam of Bucky’s mouth anyway. Bucky’s lips part on a sigh, and Steve sucks at his bottom lip. He’s luscious and sweet as dessert, and Steve can’t help but to take a bite, pulling Bucky’s lip between his teeth. Bucky groans under the attention and lays his hand flat to the small of Steve’s back, pressing their bodies closer together.

Bucky’s hand at his thigh migrates higher. Steve huffs about it for a moment—lower and to the left, please—until his fingers trail up Steve’s side and under his shirt. Okay, sure, that’ll work too. He pulls at Bucky’s hair and draws Bucky’s tongue into his mouth to let him know that he likes it, that it’s good. The corners of Bucky’s mouth tip up, just slightly smiling as he works his other hand under Steve’s shirt too, his fingers cool against Steve’s suddenly flushed hot skin.

“You gonna commit to taking my shirt off or keep dawdling,” Steve breaks away to say.

Bucky laughs softly against his cheek, a warm puff of air. “I’m trying, but you’re making it kind of difficult, spider monkey.”

Steve frowns, then realizes a beat later what Bucky means. He disentangles himself from where he’s wrapped around Bucky’s torso like a—well, like a spider monkey, so tight Bucky probably could’ve backed up and Steve would’ve gone right with him. With enough free space between them, Bucky tugs at the hem of Steve’s shirt and raises an eyebrow. Steve rolls his eyes and holds his arms up so Bucky can pull his shirt off.

Bucky’s eyes linger on Steve's bare chest where it’s flushed, where the wide, pale scar cuts a line right down the middle of it. He traces a thumb along it, almost reverently. His mouth twitches, and he glances up at Steve under lashes, his eyes wondering.

He grabs for his own shirt then, and Steve helps him get it off, smoothing his hair back down where the collar caught it. Bucky’s breath hitches and he holds out his left arm. Steve reaches out to touch the scar that etches a jagged white line over his bicep and down onto his forearm.

“We match,” Steve says.

Bucky looks up him with a quiet, stunned smile. The corners of his eyes crinkle with it. “We do.”

Steve feels compelled to say something vaguely douchey, like _Let’s see if our dicks match too_ , to break the moment. He doesn’t, though; just reaches up to cup Bucky’s jaw, stroking his cheek with a thumb. Bucky leans into the touch and then leans back into Steve for another kiss, this one sweet and practically chaste, despite their bare chests.

“Thanks for cooking dinner for me,” Steve says against his mouth. “I don’t remember if I said that yet.”

“You’re welcome,” Bucky says, punctuating it with another peck. He shifts back to meet Steve’s eye. “Do you wanna go to bed now?”

Steve’s breath hitches, and his voice is high and reedy when he says, “Yeah. Yeah, let’s go.”

“Yay, awesome,” Bucky cheers. Steve smacks his chest for being a dork again, but Bucky just wraps him up in his arms again and hefts. Steve scrambles for a moment as Bucky picks him up before he thinks to wrap his legs around Bucky’s waist again. Bucky laughs as he clings to him, walking them toward the bed in the corner of the room. Steve laughs too, thready and breathless, his face pressed to the crook of Bucky’s neck where his pulse thrums hard and steady. Shame it's such a short walk.

At the bed’s foot, Bucky sinks to his knees and tips forward, Steve letting go just enough to flop back against the mattress. Bucky hovers over him, smiling so broad his cheeks dimple, and motions for Steve to scoot up the bed. The mattress doesn't so much as squeak. Bucky follows him a moment later, ducking his head to smack kisses up Steve’s stomach. They tickle, and he snickers and swats at Bucky’s head, but then Bucky's lips find one of Steve’s nipples. He sucks at it, then swirls his tongue around it till it hardens. Steve sighs and tosses his head back against the pillows, his eyes slipping closed.

Bucky’s hands rub up and down his sides, firm and feeling, while he kisses up Steve’s chest toward his neck. He feels so good on top of Steve, their body heat a cloud between them. Steve’s heart hammers, his breath short as Bucky’s hair tickles at his collarbone. He wraps one leg around the back of Bucky’s thigh, and in response Bucky rolls his hips down, fitting perfectly into the V of Steve’s spread legs.

Even with several layers of cotton in the way, the friction is delicious—so lovely that Steve gasps and clutches at Bucky’s hips, holding on as he rocks against him again. Neither of them are quite hard yet, but they’re well on their way, and Steve trembles at the thought of getting his hands on him, of Bucky touching him too. Jesus, but he’s falling apart before anything’s even _happened_.

“Steve?” Bucky asks, pulling back to frown down at him. “Everything okay?”

“What?” Steve asks, and then notices that he is actually shaking a bit. “Um, yeah. I’m good. This is good.”

“Are you sure? We don’t—I mean, don’t get me wrong, I want to. But we don’t have to do anything. There’s no pressure, if you wanna hit the brakes—”

“ _No_ —” Steve interrupts, shaking his head, but Bucky still pulls away and leans back onto his knees. He takes Steve’s hand and helps him into a sitting position facing him.

“You were shaking,” Bucky says, rubbing Steve’s shoulders like he might be cold. “Tell me what that’s about first, okay?”

“I’m just—” Steve starts, and raises a (trembling, goddammit) hand to his brow. He takes a deep breath and then spills his guts. Whatever, if this going to end at least he got kissed real hard first. “I’m nervous about fucking this up, I guess. I really like you, which I know is stupid to say after two dates, but I—most people get sick of me really quickly, and I’m scared you will too, and … fuck, I don’t know what I’m talking about.”

Bucky’s brow does this little pinching thing, his eyes all concerned. “Steve,” he says.

“I can just go, it’s fine,” Steve says. He moves to get off the bed, but Bucky grips him by the arm and holds him still.

“Did I ask you to leave?” Steve blanches, so Bucky continues, “I’m not going to just … sleep with you and then disappear, Steve. I like you a lot too. You know that, right? I’m pretty sure I’m being really obvious about it.”

“You kind of are, yeah,” Steve says with a sly smile, sinking back into the bed a fraction.

“Then what makes you think I want you anywhere but right here?” Bucky’s face is so wide open, honest and smiling at him like there’s nothing more obvious in the world than how much he wants Steve here. There really isn’t, Steve supposes, but—

“Everybody else I’ve dated—” he starts, but Bucky cuts over him.

“Stop equating me to everyone else you’ve dated,” Bucky says. “They’re not here right now, I am, and I’m not going anywhere. You don’t have to either. Okay?”

“Okay,” Steve concedes. He relaxes back into the pillows fully, and Bucky grins at him.

“Now, am I good to take your pants off or what?” Bucky asks.

Steve laughs and nods. “Yeah, yes, please take my pants off, Bucky.”

He has his own hands at his fly before Bucky gets there, undoing the button and the zipper in succession. Bucky bats his hands away and grabs the waistband of Steve’s jeans, shucking them down his legs till they’re inside-out and off. He dumps them on the floor and gets up to work his own pants off while Steve rids himself of socks and underwear.

When Bucky is properly de-clothed, Steve can’t help his sharp inhale. He knew from the moment he saw him walking up the street that day that he was one of the hottest guys he’d ever seen, but good _fuck_. The best part, though, is that Bucky stares back at him with the same heavy-lidded eyes, drinking in the sight of Steve laid out naked on his bed.

He winks at Bucky, spreading his legs a little—okay, a lot, if you've got it flaunt it—and is rewarded by Bucky’s throat bobbing as he swallows noisily. There’s a few other things Steve’d like to see him swallow. He holds out his hand, and Bucky takes it, sinking back onto the bed and over him again.

There’s no preamble this time. He props himself up on one arm and hitches one of Steve’s legs around his waist with the other, surging down to kiss him just as he thrusts against him. His mouth is as open as the rest of him had been moments again, his body so loose and unashamedly eager. The way he shifts above him, how he kisses and touches him so ardently, makes Steve feel comfortable enough to meet him movement for movement, kiss for kiss. He sighs and scrabbles and pulls at Bucky's long hair, which will surely be a wild tangle by the time they’re done.

Bucky lets go of Steve’s leg to reach between them and grasp Steve’s dick in his hand. He draws his fist up the length and back down agonizingly slowly. Steve keens high against his mouth, and Bucky breaks the kiss to pull away and watch him. He strokes him, slow but firm, and Steve’s eyes flicker open, blinking hazily in the room’s low light as pleasure mounts in him.

“Can you believe,” Bucky starts, twisting his thumb over the head of Steve’s dick, “that we met” —another terrific tug— “because I left a string of anal beads where you work?”

“We’d’ve probably met eventually anyway,” Steve gasps. “Through Sam.”

“Yeah.” Bucky leans down to press a searing, too-short kiss to Steve’s open mouth. “M’glad it happened that way though. Good story.”

“Speaking of,” Steve murmurs.

Bucky pulls back with wide eyes, his hand still wrapped around Steve’s cock. Steve smirks up at him.

“Oh,” Bucky breathes. “Do you—you want that?”

Steve shrugs. “I mean, I’ve never used them before, but I’m pretty open to trying new stuff.”

“Oh,” Bucky says again, a blush darkening the already present color in his cheeks. He lets go of Steve.

“What?”

“Well, I just—thought you’d use them on me, not the other way around.”

It’s Steve’s turn to breathe out, “Oh.”

“Or we can—I’m down for anything, I just kind of assumed.”

“I’d like to try it,” Steve admits, mouth twisting, “if you don’t mind.”

“If I don’t—Jesus, yeah, what a fuckin’ letdown.” Bucky laughs, short and bright. Steve chuckles and smushes a palm into Bucky’s face as he reaches for the bedside table. He rifles through the bottom drawer and comes back with a bottle of lube and the very same anal beads Steve plucked out of the lost and found.

Steve grabs the loop out of Bucky’s hand and drapes the strand around his neck, clutching at his chest with the other hand. “Oh, is this for me? Bucky, you shouldn’t have! How you spoil me with all this finery!”

“You’re such a goddamn punk,” Bucky grumbles, but he smiles as he grabs the beads back. “Turn over for me.”

Bucky shifts out from between his legs, and Steve flips on his stomach, hoisting himself up onto knees and elbows. He might waggle his hips a little, just to see the blue of Bucky’s eyes go a shade darker. Might, definitely does—same difference.

“Am I gonna like this?” Steve asks over his shoulder.

“Not everyone does,” Bucky says, laying a broad hand over the swell of Steve’s ass, digging his fingers into it. “So if it’s not jiving for you, let me know, and we’ll do something else, alright?”

“Gotcha,” Steve says. He tips his cheek against the sheets, his breathing coming shorter as the anticipation of being touched builds. Bucky’s hand on his asscheek kneads into the flesh while he pops the cap on the lube. He pulls his hand away, and Steve laments the loss of contact before he gasps, one finger pressing lightly against his hole.

“Fingers first?” Steve asks.

“Gotta get you lubed up, honey,” Bucky tells him. The endearment feels nearly as good as the pad of Bucky’s forefinger rubbing increasingly insistent circles at his entrance. “Don’t wanna hurt you.”

Steve just sighs and tries to relax for him, pillowing his head on his arms. After a long, long minute, Bucky finally presses inside him, just the very tip of his finger like the goddamn tease Steve has realized he is. If he didn’t eat it up so much, he might hate him for it—but as it is, Bucky’s fingertip swirling just barely inside him, he wouldn’t ask for anything else.

Bucky slides his finger deeper inside him, crooking and twisting it, slicking Steve up. He works into him until Steve is groaning, begging wordlessly for more, unable to keep his hips from working backward against Bucky’s hand. Humoring him, Bucky shoves in all the way to the third knuckle. It's unexpected enough to send a shiver up Steve’s spine as Bucky curls his finger and drags it back out, all the way. He lingers against Steve’s rim, dipping his head down to kiss the base of Steve’s spine.

“I’m gonna switch to the beads now,” he says.

“You do that,” Steve exhales.

Bucky chuckles behind him, and Steve hears the lube’s lid pop again before there’s something else pressing against him. Small, spherical, silicone—the black strand of beads, Bucky slowly pressing the first one inside of him. Steve spreads his knees wider as Bucky keeps feeding the beads into his body. He goes slowly, and Steve shifts his hips fractionally, trying to feel them inside, but there’s not much sensation.

“Alright, all in,” Bucky says, his voice rough and low.

Steve frowns, lifting his head to look back at Bucky. “I can’t really feel anything.”

Bucky meets his eye, a challenging smile curving over his face. “Yeah?”

He tugs on the loop at the end of the strand, and one bead slips slowly out of Steve’s body. He gasps at the sensation, so good and gone so quickly. Bucky’s smile grows wider at his slack-jawed expression. He pulls again, and another bead slides out of Steve’s ass—the subtlest kind of pleasure, delicately excruciating and not nearly enough.

Bucky keeps drawing the strand out of him, punctuated by Steve's little gasps and moans. Bucky knows what he’s doing, must have done this before, either to himself or someone else—and isn’t _that_ hot, knowing that these beads have been inside Bucky too. He alternates with no real pattern between pulling the beads almost lazily and popping them out quickly. With each one Steve’s breath catches and rolls, all his muscles slumping liquid-loose till Bucky has to grab his hip to hold him up.

After what feels like hours to Steve, the last one drops out of his hole. He feels good, floating, and desperately empty. His hips shift of their own volition, dipping sideways onto the bed. Bucky grasps his shoulder and rolls him fully onto his side, crawling over top of him till his face hangs over Steve’s.

“Good?” Bucky asks.

“You really have to ask?” Steve says, eyelids fluttering open to see Bucky so close to him. He smiles dopily up at him, blissed out—and shit, he hasn’t even come yet. He kind of completely forget about his dick, so focused on how incredible his ass felt. Who the hell is Bucky Barnes and what has he done to Steve Rogers?

Bucky bites his lip around a grin and swoops down to kiss Steve’s jaw. “You wanna go again?”

“Actually, I’d really like you to fuck me now, if that’s cool.”

“You really gotta stop asking me for things like that like you expect me to be disappointed.” Bucky reaches down to squeeze his ass. Steve hums happily and starts to roll onto his stomach, but Bucky grabs him by the shoulder and keeps him still.

“Like this.” He pushes Steve’s shoulder the other way, till his back’s flush against the mattress with his hips still sideways, legs curled up, a gentle spinal twist.

Steve gets a hand on his neck to tug him down for a kiss, and the shift makes Bucky’s cock brush against the back of thigh, hard and hot. Steve sucks at his lip once more before releasing him.

“Let me know if that stretch gets to be too much,” Bucky asks. Steve nods and smiles as Bucky props himself up on knees. He’s starting to think checking in might be Bucky’s kink or something, but it’s nice to have someone so attentive, someone who cares so much about making sure this is good for him too. Unselfish sex—ain’t that a concept.

Bucky fetches a condom and rolls it onto himself with a soft sigh. He’s flushed red, delectably thick and gleaming as he applies a liberal amount of lube. As good as the beads had been, Steve’s ready to have that inside him. It must show on his face, how much he wants him apparent in the bright color of his cheeks, because Bucky’s eyes flash and he starts jacking himself off slowly.

“If you don’t stop being such a fucking cocktease, I’m gonna see what else is in that drawer and just get myself off.”

“So pushy,” Bucky says, but he inches closer. Spreading Steve’s cheeks with one hand, he lines himself up with the other, the rounded head of him pressing at Steve’s slick entrance. Steve expects to have to wait through a few tantalizing moments of Bucky lingering there, rubbing himself in the cleft of Steve’s ass—but he doesn’t, Bucky starts pushing in immediately. Good boy. Learned his lesson just fine.

He goes slowly, gingerly, but he keeps going till his hips are flush against the curve of Steve’s ass, buried to the hilt inside him. Bucky leans down over him, nuzzling at Steve’s chest, smacking kisses over his collarbone. Steve grabs him by the hair again and pulls his head up so he can glare at him.

“Bucky Barnes, if you don’t start moving right the fuck now—”

“You do realize you’re making it more fun for me, right? You’re bringing this upon yourself.”

“I’m going to leave.”

“My dick is literally all the way up your ass,” Bucky says. He shakes with laughter, and the tremors send the tiniest sparks of pleasure through Steve, but it’s not enough by far. “Good luck with that.”

Steve opens his mouth to berate him some more, but just then Bucky pulls out and thrusts back in with a low grunt. Steve’s breath hitches, his hand wrapping more firmly in Bucky’s hair. Bucky clenches his jaw, his eyes amused and blazing as he drives into him again. Even he can’t tease for too long, quickly succumbing to his own pleasure as he sets up a rhythm.

Steve watches him work with heavy eyes. He’d normally try to throw it back some, but from this position he can’t do much more than grind his hips back to meet Bucky thrust for thrust. Watching him is plenty good, though. Bucky pants over him, his eyes so dark now. He bites his lip hard enough that Steve’s worried he might break the skin and reaches up to pull it free with a thumb. Bucky smiles at him, rocking into him and reaching forward to kiss him again. He swallows down Steve’s sounds, soft sighs that slip into guttural groans as Bucky’s dick slides so wonderfully inside him.

Bucky pulls away from his mouth too quickly, a wet smacking sound as Steve tries to follow him up. On his knees now, still drilling into him fluidly, he takes Steve’s top knee and rolls him fully onto his back without pulling out. He sinks back down onto his heels and yanks Steve’s hips into lap, and there—now Steve can work too, heels planted and undulating with him as Bucky leans forward and keeps pounding into his ass, their skin slapping together noisily.

Bucky plants one hand on the bed by Steve’s ribs, grinning crookedly down at him as he takes Steve’s cock in hand again. Then Steve’s rolling up into his grip, down onto his dick, heat curling between his legs and spilling out into the rest of his body.

Shit, is this the best sex Steve’s ever had? This might be the best sex Steve’s ever had. He’ll have to consider it later—right now he’s too close to orgasm for much coherent thought.

Bucky must know he’s close by the way he’s keening, having trouble keeping his eyes open. He grips him tighter, jacks him quicker, fucks into him just that much harder. The head of Bucky’s dick grazes over Steve’s prostate, and Steve practically screams with it, so Bucky keeps the angle and hits that spot again and again.

Steve feels it building in him, the way you can hear a tea kettle before it whistles—anticipating, expecting, knowing it’s about to happen until _suddenly_ —

He comes with a shout, shooting over Bucky’s fingers and onto his own stomach. His whole body tenses, tightening around Bucky’s dick inside him and everywhere else, before unfurling and falling slack against the sheets with a relieved sigh.

Bucky pushes into him four more times and then slumps over top of him, gasping open-mouthed against Steve’s cheek as he comes into the condom deep in Steve’s ass. Even through his own post-orgasmic haze, he feels Bucky’s dick pulsing inside him, sending tingling aftershocks drifting up his spine.

It takes a few minutes, but eventually Bucky pulls out and rolls off of him. Steve sighs at the loss of pressure, but Bucky’s still there, one hand stroking absently over Steve’s chest.

“Gimme like two minutes and I’ll get a towel,” Bucky mumbles against his shoulder. He presses his lips to the freckles there and then sighs, heavy and content.

“No rush,” Steve says, still catching his breath.

“That was really fucking good, right?” Bucky says a minute later. “Like, I’m not imagining that that was some mind-blowing sex we just had. Please confirm.”

“Nope, not imagining,” Steve says. He turns his face to press it into Bucky’s sweat-damp hair. “It’s like you’re good at that or something.”

“Me?” Bucky sounds more conscious now. “Holy shit, Steve.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m great at a lot of things. Sex is one of them. Now go get us a towel, I’m getting sticky over here.”

Bucky slides off the bed with a laugh, half-crawling down the hall that must lead to the bathroom. He comes back a few minutes later with a damp towel in hand, crouching down on the edge of the bed, but Steve holds up a hand.

“Hang on, I’m brilliant,” Steve says. Bucky squints at him. “Get my phone.”

Frowning dubiously at Steve, Bucky gets Steve’s phone out of his pants on the floor. He starts to hand it to him, but Steve waves him off. He finds the anal beads in the mess of sheets and drapes them over his stomach, dragging them a little to further smear the mess of come there. He throws an arm over his face, twisting his legs just enough to hide his dick.

“Alright, now take a picture,” he says.

“Uh,” Bucky says, “why?”

Shifting his elbow up so he can see him, Steve smirks when he sees Bucky’s spent cock give an interested twitch. Teasing is pretty fun, fine. “Nat’s not gonna shut up till she knows we fucked. I want to TMI her so hard that she never asks me about my dick again.”

Bucky barks a startled laugh, but he shifts away to hold up the phone at a better angle. Steve fits his arm back over his face just before the flash goes off.

“Let’s send it to Sam too," Bucky says. "Two birds, one nude.”

Handing his phone back to him, Bucky grabs the towel again to wipe Steve clean. Steve makes sure the picture looks good—it’s more than good, he looks absolutely debauched—and fires it off in a group text.

“This plan has a high probability of backfiring spectacularly,” Steve says. “But I sent it.”

Bucky grins at him as he gets rid of the towel and cuts off the lights. Climbing back into bed, he curls up behind Steve and throws an arm around his middle. Steve presses back into him, happy to be the little spoon, comfortable in Bucky’s bed and in his arms.

“So you’re serving me breakfast in the morning too, right?” he asks, eyes closing.

“I make a mean French toast,” Bucky says, nuzzling his nose against the nape of Steve’s neck. “Do you work tomorrow?

“Nope, I’m off.”

“There’s a joke in there somewhere about me getting you off.”

“I—” Steve starts, but he’s too sleepy and warm to bother. “I like you.”

“You’ll like me more after you’ve had my French toast.”

Steve thinks just about anything Bucky does would only make him like him more. “Can’t wait.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love comments like Steve now loves anal beads. Come say hi on [tumblr!](http://bvckyisms.tumblr.com/)


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